


mise en place

by Fxckxxp



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Chefs, Awkward Flirting, Cooking Lessons, Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, Meet-Cute, POV Niccolò Fares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22285618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fxckxxp/pseuds/Fxckxxp
Summary: Martino teaches cooking classes, Niccolò desperately needs them, and food is the ultimate love language.
Relationships: Niccolò Fares/Martino Rametta
Comments: 35
Kudos: 150





	mise en place

###### i. Antipasti

> _**Subject:** Reminder: See You Soon!  
>  **From:** cookingwithmartino@turchino.it_
> 
> Thank you for enrolling in September’s block of partner cooking classes with head chef of Turchino, Martino Rametta. Once a week for a full evening, you’ll learn the basics of tricky techniques, how to properly taste your food as you cook, and walk away from the stove with a few new skills. Plus, learn our famous carbonara recipe. We look forward to seeing you Thursday, September 3rd at 7:00 p.m.!

  
That’s in forty-five minutes. Nico stops mid-chew of his slightly cold pizza al taglio, that _oh shit_ drop in his stomach as he reads the date. Admittedly, this is the first time he’s checked his personal email since the weekend.

He totally forgot about this. Understandably so — he booked these classes for Maddalena and himself _months_ ago as an anniversary gift to them both. Would have been five years together.

 _Well,_ he thinks. _Debatable._ He could argue the last half of their relationship felt disturbingly sibling-like. And in the past year, they stopped having sex altogether. They’ve both half-heartedly tried to ignite a dead flame, these classes an attempt at that, but when it came down to the actual breakup it was relievingly mutual and hardly a surprise.

Not a _bad_ breakup, but a sad one. It’s not easy for Nico to let go.

Not easy to admit, either, he’s resorted to a few sad-bachelor tendencies since she’s been gone. (They know him by name now at the pizzeria, and he won’t tell you this is hardly his first time there this week.)

He also lost his first real job a few weeks ago, lucky enough to take a part-time one running the front desk at his gym for now while he sorts it out. Just the sour cherry on top of it all.

With a greasy finger, he swipes his phone to check his bank account in a last-ditch effort to see if, possibly, they don’t charge until you go to the class. Foolish of him, it looks like the money was deducted in June.

Back to the email, he scans it to see if maybe some fine print outlines their cancellation policy. Ah, a twenty-four-hour notice is required. How convenient, the reminder seems to have been sent barely before then.

Nico sighs, googling where this Turchino restaurant even is. Not that he’s considering going — the money is already spent and he barely realized. Plus, the email clearly reiterated _partner_ cooking classes and he doesn’t have one anymore, does he? He’s hoping it’s far enough away that he can justify any residual guilt about it.

No luck. It’s in Piazza Mattei and he’s currently walking down Via Arenula. He could be there in five minutes if he wanted.

As he fumbles to put his phone away, stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, some brisk walker behind him bumps into his back. A hard elbow right in his side. Probably on purpose. They don’t stop to turn around, and Nico drops his pizza. Toppings side down on the pavement. A seagull is quick to fight the underfoot for it as people step around them.

Maybe it’s a sign.  


—

  
He’s early, loitering in Piazza Mattei with Turchino in view, the Turtle Fountain between them. Around the corner of the restaurant, a man and woman — both in chef whites — share a cigarette.

With nothing else to do, Nico sits on one of the concrete spheres that act as a barricade between the traffic and the piazza, takes his sketchbook from his bag, and begins to illustrate the scene. He chalks out the planes of the buildings, the metal, serif letters of _Turchino_ above the large windows by the entrance, the gestures of the figures on the fountain, the Vespas and motorcycles parked inside the piazza and the two chefs across the street. They’re no more than a few flagged lines. It reminds him of school, where he’s sure he’s drawn the lithe arms of the men, hoisting up the turtles before.

He’s not incredibly happy with it — his figure drawing days numbering unpracticed — but it passes enough time. Nico’s decided he’s going to walk in at exactly at 7:00 p.m. Or, rather, pack up and start walking over at exactly 7:00 p.m. He doesn’t want to be the first one.

And he’s not. The restaurant is almost empty when he goes in — a few people drinking at the bar. It’s still early. There’s a little stand-up sign that simply says _7:00 p.m. Class_ with an arrow pointing right. Nico follows it to a back room behind a tall set of open french doors. It almost looks like a ballroom. High ceiling with a fancy chandelier, wooden floors, ornate wall decor.

But it’s been set up like a cooking show. Neat stations, all facing the same way, make up rows of counters each complete with their own oven, stove, and sink. Two stools at each one. They’re almost all taken by chattering couples whose voices ricochet around all the empty space.

Except for one in the front, facing what is obviously the instructor’s station. Just like secondary school, it seems like no one wants to be too close to the teacher. Nico takes that one by default. Sitting alone and feeling stupid about it.

Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. His mood is dialing down fast.

With the instructor nowhere in sight, he actually contemplates getting up and heading back out. But just a second too late, because as soon as he swivels off his stool, the man Nico saw outside walks in, pointing with two fingers at the pairs amongst him and counting under his breath. If he remembers right from the email, his name is Martino.

He looks confused. “Are we missing someone?” He asks over the babble.

Nico guesses that’s his cue. He leans in. “My partner can’t make it,” he says, probably too quietly.

“It’s fine, you can be my partner,” Martino waves his hand for Nico to come join him up front, spoken with a friendly air, unfazed, like this happens all the time.

Nico complies, grateful that the room is still loud with chit chat while people settle in and no one seems to be paying any attention to him.

“What’s your name?” Martino asks him in a quieter voice, now that they’re side-by-side. He shakes his hands off at the sink where he’s just washed them, only turning to meet Nico’s eyes after he’s asked the question.

They are warm, brown. Deep with a kindness that makes Nico relax, that doesn’t make him feel like a useless nuisance. Maybe this won't be so bad.

“Niccolò, but you can just call me Nico.”

“Nice to meet you, Nico,” Martino smiles. “I’d shake your hand but I just washed mine.”

“Oh?” Nico scans himself, half in jest as he checks his shirt to make sure there are no pizza crumbs on it from earlier. “Do I look that gross?” He raises an eyebrow, hoping it sounds like a joke.

Martino, who's turned back now to a binder sitting on the counter with what looks like the lesson plan, gives Nico a once over from the corner of his eye. He laughs. And not in a forced, polite way.

Nico can tell it came from the center of his chest, that the smile it lives inside is legitimate. It’s natural, practically silent. More bouncing shoulders than sound. Almost to himself. Nico holds back a sigh of relief.

“No, just protocol,” Martino finally snorts. He opens his mouth again, like he’s about to say something else, changes his mind, and then shuts it. Then opens it again. His attention fully on the binder this time, although strained.

Nico sees his eyes bounce around the page, looking but not reading. Simply keeping busy.

“So, Nico, what would you say you are? Beginner? Amature? Experienced?”

Nico purses his lips, not about to lie — although he feels sorry that, of all people, Martino has to be stuck with him, a grown man who can barely make a sandwich. Nico guesses that’s technically his job, but still.

“Sometimes when I pour a bowl of cereal, all the cereal makes it into the bowl,” Nico jokes, going for a downplayed approach and hiding how pathetic his cooking skills are behind a bit of humor.

 _“Yeesh,”_ Martino laughs, grimacing. He flips his binder back to the first page. “But eh, you’re probably not the worst I’ve seen. Good thing you’re here then. We’ll have fun. Okay —”

Martino doesn’t give Nico a chance to respond before he claps his hands, snaps his head up, and adjusts his voice to presenter mode, addressing the class. It takes a moment for everyone to fall silent.

Nico politely watches him make introductions, wearing his chef whites, gesticulating with a loud but charming voice. Always smiling. He can’t be older than Nico, although the slight scruff on his face makes him question. They rest at about the same height, if not Martino just a centimeter taller. But he takes up a little more room. Big shoulders. Long legs. Strong, round chin, jaw and nose.

It takes the movement of the class for Nico to realize he wasn’t really listening to Martino at all, just looking at him.

They’re all wandering towards a basket at the back of the room filled with aprons. Martino stops him just as Nico takes a step forward.

“Here, you use this one.” Martino places his hand on the outside of Nico’s shoulder. “Teacher’s pet bonus.” He grabs the plain black apron hanging on a hook to their right and throws it at Nico before going to the back with everyone else.

Comically, it hits Nico in the face before he flails for it. By the time he’s shaken it out, tying it around his waist in a double loop, Martino’s returning with one of those muscle man aprons — the ones with a cartoonish drawing of a man’s figure illustrating an almost grotesque six-pack. For some reason, the neck part of it is clad with a bow tie.

“Hot, right?” Martino raises his eyebrow when he catches Nico noticing.

Nico smirks. “Very.”

A quick glance around reveals that almost all of the aprons — tied around the waists of the variety of students — have some sort of novelty to them. Funny phrases or silly patterns.

Martino explains how the three classes this month will be broken out. Focused on simple, classic recipes, this week is all about starters and lighter fare, next week they’ll be doing pasta, and the last class is seafood. If they have enough time, he likes to end with dessert. And, hopefully by then, they’ll have everything they need to go forth and impress dinner guests with a full, four-course meal.

“Oh!” Martino claps his hands again. “Sorry, I forgot to mention — I see you all eyeballing the wine by your stations — feel free to open your bottle and drink while you cook. I’m no _sommelier_ but I’ve had some help pairing what’ll go nicely with what we’re making. Or you can take the bottle home and save it for your recreations.”

It doesn’t seem like a slip up to Nico, but he notices Martino exhale a sigh of relief after he remembers, like everything was a moment away from derailing if they uncorked their bottles a second later. He seems very organized and very at home, although Nico can read through him well: he’s in host mode.

“I usually don’t drink while I cook…” Martino trails, quiet now and just for Nico. “But what the hell.” He rounds the counter and grabs the bottle meant for Nico’s station and brings it back to the front for them. Easily pops the cork and pours two glasses. “Cheers?”

“Cheers,” Nico laughs, clinking them together.

“To learning how to do more than pour cereal,” Martino teases him, waiting for Nico to take a sip almost like he wants him to spit it out in a laugh.

He almost does.

They’re going to be making radicchio, fennel, and olive panzanella first, and then what Martino describes as “pasta e fagioli, but fancier” second. He has everyone come gather around his and Nico’s station for a quick demonstration, reminding them that he’ll be making rounds after if they have questions.

Nico watches him explain how to properly hold a knife, how to curl your fingers as to not cut them, going over the difference between slicing crosswise and lengthwise. Trying to take it all in so he doesn’t seem like a complete idiot when he actually has to do it.

Martino dismisses them, having gone through the recipe for the salad and waving them away. “Will you be okay?” He turns to ask Nico. “I’m just going to quickly go around and make sure people aren’t being stupid.”

The real answer is no, because Nico has no idea what he’s doing, but he nods anyway like it’s no big deal. Martino pats his shoulder, sliding his loose grip absentmindedly down to his bicep as he walks away.

Maybe he wasn’t expecting Nico to feel strong (or maybe, subconsciously, Nico flexed), but Nico sees Martino stop himself mid-doubletake as he leaves, just a caught profile over his shoulder, surprised at what he felt.

Nico looks down and pinches his smile. The validation feels nice. He has to read the first line of the recipe three times to come back to reality.

Preheat the oven. Tear bread. Okay, that’s easy enough. He can do that. The timing works out perfectly, because when he’s done with the loaf Martino is back.

“Look at you,” he all but serenades Nico. “Tearing bread. And it all made it into the bowl.”

Nico rolls his eyes with just enough sass to convey he’s in a lighthearted mood. “Oh fuck off, I should have never said anything, huh?”

Martino's eyebrows rocket into the curls over his forehead, and Nico hopes it wasn’t too harsh. It was meant to be a joke. But Martino narrows his eyes and purses his lips in a smirk — not put down, but perhaps a little impressed.

“This is the hand grater,” he chuckles, shoving Nico lightly in the shoulder before rifling for it in the drawer under the sink. “For the lemon zest. Here —” he reaches in front of Nico to grab a lemon from the bowl on the counter and proceeds to scrub the rind over it a few times. Nico watches the shredded peel fall onto the cutting board below. “Just do this to the whole lemon.” He hands it over.

Nico takes it, not realizing his whole body went stiff when Martino reached in. Shoulders touching his chest. His hair right below Nico’s nose. It makes him feel almost high.

But like, crazy crack cocaine high, not mellow marijuana high. Not that Nico knows the difference, he’s never done the former. And it’s been years since he’s done the latter.

“I mean, your six-pack could probably work,” Nico jokes, taking the lemon and rubbing it against the fake, printed muscles on the apron over Martino's belly. He even makes a fake, scrapey sound with his lips.

Martino's frozen face mortifies him.

Fuck, he’s doing that thing again. Being weird.

But then, Marti, either a pro at handling weirdos or (Nico crosses his fingers) strangely charmed by Nico’s oddity, doubles over in a laugh.

Maybe Nico, subliminally, just wants to make him.

“No, I don’t have a real six-pack, sadly,” Martino smiles. “Probably comes with loving food.”

Nico, thankfully saved by grace, tries with all his might to not imagine what Martino actually looks like under his clothes. He blames his blush on the rising temperature of the room as everyone’s ovens preheat.

Once the lemon is zested, Martino takes the liberty of tossing the bread with it and some olive oil, spreading it evenly over a baking sheet and sprinkling the whole thing with a healthy dose of salt and pepper. He throws it in the oven. All with the speed and grace of a gazelle. He winks at Nico all chummy before bouncing off to check on everyone again, who are slightly ahead since half of their team isn’t also the instructor.

“I don’t trust you with a knife yet,” Martino adds, spinning on his heel and pointing at Nico with a lowered head. “So just wait a moment.”

Nico sips his wine, hoping his shortening glass is what’s making his head float. He watches Martino busy about like a bumblebee, floating from station to station and doing mini demos, correcting a few techniques, helping someone measure vinegar for the dressing. Some girls laugh at his apron, he laughs with them. He’s quick on his feet in an _I avoid clumsiness just barely_ sort of way and always smiling.

And very, very cute. Nico finishes his glass of wine at the thought, pouring himself another from the bottle.

It’s not like it just dawned on him or anything, but there’s a little algorithm in his brain he hasn’t quite figured out yet — it somehow sorts people he’s attracted to into two categories: 1) just another hot person, nothing more to see here and 2) can we get married, like, yesterday.

Martino is quickly slipping into category two, his crooked smile and overflowing helpfulness and cheeky comebacks not helping at all.

The last thing Nico wanted from his split-second decision to go to these lessons in the first place was to crush on the teacher, but here he is, not even an hour in.

Martino rushes back, tipping his chin up at Nico and sliding into place beside him, opening a drawer to find another cutting board. He carefully grabs two knives from the block, handing one to Nico blade side down, and throws a handful of parsley in front of them both.

“Cutting parsley sucks, so I’m going to make you do it,” Martino says with all the seriousness in the world.

It still makes Nico laugh.

“Okay, so just watch me and do as I do. You’re right-handed, correct? Okay. Hold the knife like I showed everyone earlier. Bunch the leaves up tightly in your left hand, good —”

The tiny affirmation has Nico suppressing a full-blown grin.

“And then curl your fingers in — no, other hand. Here. Like this.”

Martino gets behind Nico and reaches around him, left hand on left hand. Chest on his back. Every finger a match on top of his own, bending them in to make a little protective claw. They’re long, warm, his palm slightly wet. It’s getting toasty in here but a thrill runs up Nico that, perhaps, Martino has a dash of nervousness underneath his host persona.

Nico wasn’t ready for it. Thankfully he doesn’t startle, but the hand is gone just as quick as it came, a second more and Nico doesn’t know if the surprisingly natural impulse to turn it over and twine their fingers could have been overcome. He tries to shake off the feeling and keep his hand in the position where Martino left it, despite feeling like every bone has left his body.

“And then you just…” Martino steps back to his side, mimicking on his own board by slicing his knife down. “Chop it.”

Nico tries, his grip a little shaky now.

“Nice!” Martino praises. “But keep your fingers curled or you’ll cut them off.”

Is it sadistic that, maybe subconsciously, Nico isn’t following the directions so Martino will correct him hand on hand again?

It almost works. After the fifth chop and third reminder, Martino just reaches over and pats the back of Nico’s hand twice, sternly. “Curl! Your! Fingers!” He scolds.

Nico snickers.

“I’m serious!”

“I’m curling, I’m curling,” Nico repeats softly, smiling down at the parsley. Not just his fingers, his stomach too, his ribs around his heart.

Martino wasn’t lying when he said cutting it sucks. Keeping it bunched up is hard, the little pieces go everywhere and yet simultaneously get stuck to the knife at the same time. Nico watches Martino take the easy job of tearing up the radicchio — how he does it so fast is beyond him, a whole head of it gone in a blink of an eye before he moves on to pit some olives.

“So, _Nico,”_ Martino sweetly emphasizes the shortened name Nico insisted upon. He takes a small, flat-on-both-sides hammer and cleaves an olive with one swift clobber.

_Bang._

_Curl._

“Is your partner joining you next time? Or should I plan for you to be stuck with me all month?”

Nico chuckles darkly, almost laughing at himself. “Uh, no, they won’t be joining me.” He leaves the pronoun vague, not wanting to smother the blue flicker of hope he’s almost sure he feels between them with something as anticlimactic as an ex-girlfriend. Not that he’s planning to stoke it, but he likes the warmth.

“Bad breakup?”

His head snaps up at Martino with an analytical squint. Almost like: _how did you know?_

“Sorry,” Martino bites his lip back.

“No no,” Nico corrects him. “It’s fine.”

Because really, it is. It wasn’t even that bad. And honestly so long ago Nico forgot that (with, admittedly, the distraction of his newfound “crush” on Martino) he’s here, loosely, because of her.

“I just assumed...” Martino trails after a somewhat awkward pause, Nico’s knife slowly thudding with each chop against the cutting board and intermittent smacks of Martino's olive pitting. “Usually people our age taking classes are couples, or on dates.”

“Oh, a date?” Nico jokes, elbowing Martino to lighten the mood. Insinuating — just lightly — the two of them.

He feels brave as the words leave his mouth — cheeks flushing but not embarrassed, or wishing he could take it back. He’s always been skilled at slipping in euphemisms, ploys, half-jokes on things he half-means at times that will make present parties just half-believe.

“Hm,” Martino hums, nodding with a coy smirk and looking down as he scoops his smashed, pitted olives into a bowl. “I wouldn’t want to make your secret admirer jealous.”

“Secret admirer?”

“You can’t look now,” Martino whispers, “because then she’ll know we’re talking about her. But I’ve caught the girl with the curly hair and red lipstick at the first table check you out a few times.”

Nico, obtuse in his curiosity, looks up immediately to lock eyes with her. She’s mid-sip of her wine, pretty eyes. She giggles and turns back to her group of friends.

“I said don’t look now!” Martino grits through his teeth, almost laughing. If a chummy shoulder shove could be a tone of voice.

Nico just mutters a pinched _oops!_ and watches Martino whisk away to make another round.

Perfect timing, he supposes. No questions answered.  


—

  
When the salads are done, Martino lets everyone have a quick bite — met with _oohs_ and _aahs_ — before instructing them to cover and place it in the fridge because they’re running behind and need to move on to the pasta e fagioli.

He has everyone gather around again for another demo, this one on how to blanch tomatoes in order to peel them easily. He hypes up his love for teaching this recipe because there are “lots of steps” and it’s “the perfect example of how often you should be tasting your food while you cook” _(“Who here has a vendetta against pasta e fagioli because it's bland? Eh? I can’t wait to prove you wrong.”)_ Also: it teaches patience, and not to “fuss over your pot.”

By now, more eased into Martino’s warm charm, Nico is able to take in the lesson completely, suddenly hanging on to every word even though mere hours ago he couldn’t care less about cooking, let alone pasta e fagioli in the slightest.

This recipe involves a lot of standing around. Nico pokes at the brewing soup too much, earning a playful scold from Martino who seems to order him to taste it every five seconds. It needs to _settle,_ he says, to which Nico drops the spoon dramatically and puts his hands up in surrender like Martino has a loaded gun with more cooking criticisms.

The clank of it on the cutting board has some broth spattering in all directions. Nico feels a fat drop of it land on his cheek right under his eye. He squints it, keeping it closed, and tries not to laugh.

Martino rolls his eyes at his carelessness, but in that head thrown back, _I couldn’t really be mad at you even if I tried_ sort of way. (Nico takes a moment to thank God, Allah, the flying spaghetti monster, or whatever is up there for the enchantment he knows he casts but has never practiced. He doesn’t have to try hard to get people to like him. At first.) Or, at least, that’s how Nico interprets it. Especially after this:

“Here,” Martino reprehends, taking a step towards him. He grabs a clean rag hanging from the handle of the oven and gently wipes the mess off Nico’s cheek, thumb pausing on the sharp bone under his eye.

Nico can’t help but wonder if Martino is curious about what his yielding face would feel like in his hand without any barrier. Skin to skin. Like hand on hand. Or if the pause is merely a projection of his own desires.

Nico thinks that in any other circumstance, a student like him — inexperienced, seemingly unserious, too much goofing around — would be Martino’s worst nightmare. And maybe they are. If it were a child tagging along with a parent, or a group of girls who care more about the wine than the food. But Martino’s patience with him doesn’t seem forced or practiced. Patience, Nico thinks, is a natural part of what he’s calling Martino’s _host mode._ But this seems more like giving in. Like if the set of the class had disappeared around them, they might as well be in either of their personal kitchens, at home, throwing flour at each other in their pajamas like they’re in a cheesy Christmas commercial.

They share a laden glance. Martino takes his hand away in a frozen period of time between too long on Nico’s face to confirm his intention was merely to clean him up and too short to bother overthinking the meaning of it.

Martino looks down, pinching his lips like he’s nervous. Nico notices his face is red. The ovens are still warm, the stoves are on, the room is hot. He’s been running around. His chef whites buttoned all the way up to his neck. Lots of excuses. And hard to make out completely under his scruff, his freckles.

“Martino!”

Martino melts with a sigh of relief at his name being called, glancing at Niccolò with a half-smile, not saying a word, and darting off to help someone in the back.  


—

  
By the time the pasta e fagioli is done, the salads are perfectly chilled.

“There’s a dining table in the back.” Martino gets on his tiptoes, pointing behind everyone. “Or if you just want to stand around and eat, or I have plenty of containers if you want to take it home…” he trails off. “I have to get cleaning, but it was so lovely to meet you all —” he pauses, licks his bottom lip and Nico swears his head turns toward him just a fraction of a degree. “And I will see you next week!”

Most people come to the front for take-away boxes, recipe cards tucked under their arms. A few stay where they are, finishing their wine and food.

“You clean up… everything?” Nico turns to him, perplexed.

Martino sighs. “Yeah, I don’t think many people would take the class if you had to do the dishes afterward.” He shoots Nico a contorted smile.

“Let me help.”

Martino’s eyebrows shoot up. He waves both hands. “No no, I couldn’t let you do that. It’s not your job.”

“The least I can do for making you have to partner up with me.”

He’s conflicted. Nico doesn’t want to clean, of course not — and he can half admit to himself he wants to spend more time with Martino. But once it leaves his lips he wishes it hadn’t, knowing that anything besides a contradiction to his self-dig will seem more dejected than it probably is.

“Well, _that_ is literally my job,” Martino counteracts. “And besides... you weren’t that bad.”

Niccolò snorts.

“I mean it!”

“You know, I worked in a kitchen once too.”

Martino tilts his head. “Oh really?”

“Yes, in London. I was head dishwasher.”

“That’s not a real title,” Martino scoffs.

“No,” Nico admits, biting his bottom lip.

He can’t tell if the little torch in his heart for Martino makes him look for signs, but maybe a second opinion would tell him that, yes, Martino’s eyes went wide at the simple act, that he swallowed something dry in his throat and that his gaze filtered down to Nico’s mouth.

Nico suddenly finds himself straightening his posture, pushing his hair back off his forehead.

“But it does mean that I know what I’m doing and that you should let me help,” he adds.

Martino pretends to ponder for a moment, one arm crossed around his front, holding his elbow while his thumb rubs his bottom lip. “Fine. Actually, if you could go around and collect everything, I have to unlock the restaurant so we can put it all away.”

Nico nods, about to get to work.

“And thank you,” Martino adds, eyes going soft, a tired smile on his lips.

By the time Nico has gone around to every station, sorting dirty utensils in a large pot for faster cleanup, the straggling students have filtered out.

Martino returns just a moment later, jingly keys in hand and propping the door open that leads from the classroom to the restaurant kitchen.

“Does it smell weird in here to you?”

Nico sniffs the air dramatically. “Now that you mention it.”

“Like something burning, yeah?” Martino half-jogs through the rows of stations, scanning. “Ah, fuck, fuck, someone left their oven on.”

Nico makes his way over, standing back with his hands clasped, not quite knowing what to do.

Martino opens it, gingerly and with a shielded face, smoke billowing out. “Shit. Fuck. A piece of bread must have gotten stuck at the bottom?”

And just then, the ring of the fire alarm blares and the sprinklers go off, raining down on them both.

Nico expected some more expletives, but Martino just stands there, looking up with shoulders slumped. A posture he recognizes all too well.

_Ah, of course this would happen._

“Let’s get out of here,” Martino sighs. “The system is hooked up to ring the fire department and they’re probably on their way. Not that there’s anything to put out but I have no idea how to turn the sprinklers off.”

When he looks back down, Nico’s relieved to find that Martino is semi-smiling. Hair plastered to his forehead in a wet sheet. They both chuckle at each other, leaving through the restaurant kitchen.

It’s warm outside, despite the nighttime. Orange lights make the muddy brown of the cobblestones look like a sepia photograph. The Turtle Fountain’s soothing, running water a stark contrast to the harsh alarm still sounding faint inside the building.

Some people dart in and out of the corner store across the piazza, but otherwise it’s empty.

The humidity makes Nico’s hair start to dry curlier than normal — Martino’s too. They take their aprons off and throw them in a soaked _thwap_ on the curb. Martino follows, sitting on it.

“I’m sorry,” Nico apologizes, not really for anything. Just in general. That this happened.

“No,” Martino chuckles, the sound muffled. Elbows resting on his knees, face in his hands. He lifts his chin up and drags his fingers down his cheeks, pulling on them to make his eyes saggy. “It’s not your fault. Kitchens make fires, it just happens... it’s actually nice that you’re here.”

Nico pinches his lips flat, simpering, and takes the end of that sentence for what it is, not prodding any further. Fussing with his thumbs in his lap. He senses Martino look over at him.

“You don’t have to stick around for this, though,” Martino notes just as the flashing lights of the fire truck round the corner. “It’s just going to be me bumbling through an excuse to the fire department and not getting any sleep tonight.”

“I’d feel bad.”

The fire truck parks at the end of the piazza. Martino gets up, brushing his pants.

“Please,” he says softly. “I’m going to be a grouch, it’s not going to be any fun. I don’t want you to see me in a bad mood.”

His _host mode_ is completely gone, Nico notices. And, fair. He understands wanting to set boundaries when he himself falls into moods he doesn’t want other people to see him in.

“Are you sure?” Nico asks.

“I’d feel so much better knowing you went home and got some sleep tonight,” Martino almost pleads. “For the both of us.”

“For the both of us,” Nico repeats so softly the sentimentalism in it doesn’t go unnoticed. He blushes.

And Martino smiles. “I’ll see you next time.”

###### ii. Primi

Martino’s waiting for Nico, waving his hand and smiling at the front of the classroom. The way his face blooms once they lock eyes honestly makes Nico’s stomach spin.

To say he’s been waiting for this all week would be an understatement.

You’d never know it by his punctuality, though. Nico’s running a bit behind. After two plus decades living in this city, you’d think he’d plan for the seemingly fifty-fifty chance (...he exaggerates) of the bus, just, not showing up. But anyway.

“Thought you weren’t going to make it,” Martino chides. Nico notices there is still a glass of wine poured for him though, a liquid red contradiction. “You missed the demonstration.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he pants, slightly winded from running the last block where the bus let him off.

He slings the apron Martino must have saved for him over his head, ties it double in front. It’s the same black one from last time. Martino is wearing a white one, clad with tiny illustrated giraffes wearing top hats.

It makes Nico smile.

“It’s okay, we just learned how to make a pasta well. I can show you.”

Martino quickly sprinkles some flour over their counter, handing Nico a measuring scale and the bag.

“We’re going to do about 400 grams of flour,” he notes. “The ratio is roughly three parts flour, two parts egg. And then a little warm water. It doesn’t need to be exact, you can always add more of the other if it looks weird.”

Nico weighs out the flour and dumps it on the counter in front of them. Martino tells him to make it into “a little volcano” — which makes him laugh — and then crack the eggs into it.

“Now, just… mix it all together, starting in the middle and scooping the flour from the inside,” Martino instructs. “Don’t worry, it’s going to look hopelessly rough and messy.”

The eggs get everywhere immediately, Nico hanging his head in shame. Martino comes to the rescue with a pastry scraper, keeping the yolks from dripping into the sink.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he laughs. “I told you it’s not pretty. Just knead it all together — like this —”

Martino gathers the ingredients in one swift scoop like a pro, pushing it with the heel of his hand to show Nico the movement.

Nico tries, gathering the runny bits into the loose flour. It smears all over the wrist of his shirt.

“Eh, fuck,” he shakes his hands. “I didn’t roll up my sleeves.”

“Here.” Martino makes grabby hands at them. “You’re a mess today,” he says under his breath, laughing.

It’s not meant in a mean way. They share a quick, up-down smirk with each other before Nico extends one arm, letting Martino bunch up the fabric to his elbow. Warm hands all over his wrist, his forearm. Nico studies them. Short, smooth nails. Little knicks in his skin, maybe from his culinary school days.

Martino gently pats the soft inside part of Nico’s elbow when he’s done, asking for the other arm. He rolls this one up slower, a little neater. Adjusts it when he’s finished like he doesn’t want to let go.

Or maybe it’s just the perfectionist in him. Nico’s been keeping the flame in his heart abated with an alibi for every touch.

“Thanks,” Nico nods when he’s done, his arms buzzing, the hairs on them sticking up. He halfway hopes Martino felt the physicalness of his nerves.

“Just knead,” Martino chuckles, squinting his eyes at Nico like he can see right through him. Like they’re in on a little thing neither of them can define.

“I’m kneading, I’m kneading,” Nico reassuringly repeats. “There, it’s all mixed together now.” He slaps the little ball of dough.

“You have to keep going!” Martino laughs. He gestures around to the other groups, who are silently smashing large balls of pasta dough with the balls of their wrists.

“Eh? Why?”

“Kneading the dough is what forms the gluten, which you’d know if you were here on time. You should do it for at least ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes!” Nico exclaims, a little too overly dramatic to feign annoyance. He starts going again anyway, folding the dough around itself, pressing his knuckles into the fat middle. Since it’s so dry, it’s quite tough. “My arms will fall off after five.”

“You seem strong enough,” Martino smirks. He looks down at Nico’s forearms. Eyes resting on his hands for just a moment.

Nico remembers last week, the drag down his bicep and Martino’s surprised reaction.

Martino looks away, the tips of his ears red. “I’m going to go check on everyone,” he mumbles. Glancing up at Nico almost apologetically before stepping away.

_He was checking you out._

Nico shushes the voice in his head, only to act like a parent in on a scheme with a child, mentally winking to himself because he knows it’s true.

This week already feels different. Still flirty. But the push on Martino’s end and the pull on Nico’s has a tension Nico can feel in more than just his arms.

After his rounds, when it seems everyone’s dough is up to par, Martino calls the class to the front again for another demonstration. They’re going to be making two different kinds of pasta with their dough: a linguini carbonara and a ravioli with provola, egg yolks, soppressata, and classic pomodoro. He explains how using a rolling pin is superior to a pasta machine (because it leaves grooves in the pasta that soak up the sauce), and how to use the noodle lattice to cut the linguini. He goes over how long the pasta needs to dry, what an egg wash is and how to apply it for the ravioli, and how long to cook it for. They should start with the pomodoro now, as it needs at least an hour with low heat on the stove, and says once everyone’s pasta is shaped, dry, and their water is almost boiling, they’ll quickly go over how to make the carbonara sauce, which is tricky and goes fast.

“How did you know, by the way?” Nico asks when everyone has drifted back to their stations.

“Know what?”

Nico nods in the direction of Martino’s apron while he pokes around for a rolling pin. Martino hands him one from seemingly nowhere.

“Thanks —” he utters. “The giraffes. They’re my favorite.”

Martino looks down at himself, inspecting the pattern and smiling. Then back up at Nico slightly devilish. “We can switch?” He asks with raised eyebrows. “If you want?”

Nico follows his lead and scans his own apron — dirty from the failed pasta well.

He has enough metaphorical dirty laundry, something about handing it over physically seems like a bad omen.

“What I really need your six-pack apron,” Nico huffs, avoiding the question and finally rolling out the pasta. His arms are starting to feel like the noodles he’s making.

“Unfortunately it only gives you core strength, not upper body strength,” Martino chimes back. His eyes flash over Nico quickly and he switches topics, like he’d rather talk about anything than Nico’s body. “I brought us a secret ingredient.”

Nico stops rolling, looking up at Martino and blowing a curl off his forehead. “A secret ingredient?”

“Yeah.” He then pulls a metal bowl full of tomatoes from the cabinet below.

Nico stares at them. “Am I missing something?” He asks with a small chuckle, feeling his shoulders bounce.

Martino’s face reddens. He pulls at the high collar of his chef whites. “They’re from my garden,” he says softly, like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear. Like all the grocery store tomatoes might get jealous.

Ordinary as it is, something special warms through Nico. He studies the misshapen tomatoes, crimson and shiny, still with flecks of dirt on them. Martino grew these. Planted them. Watered them. Attended to them. Picked them.

Thought about what to use them for. Thought about Nico.

“You have a garden?” Nico can practically feel his eyes sparkle when he asks.

“Well,” Martino tries to shrug it off. “Garden is a loose term. It’s just a bunch of pots on my balcony.”

Nico picks one out of the bowl and studies it. “They look tasty.”

Martino snickers. “Tasty? Do you eat raw tomatoes like apples? Weirdo.”

“What am I supposed to say!” Nico laughs. He traps his tongue between his teeth to keep from smiling so wide.

And _thank you for thinking of me_ seems like too much.

Martino looks down, gathering the bowl to wash them under the sink. He turns the water on. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. Almost sadly.

There’s some awkward silence. Nico gets working on cutting the pasta. Martino has kept his hands busy with prepping ingredients for the ravioli filling: chunking the provola, dicing his tomatoes for the sauce. His host persona seems to be flickering when it’s just the two of them and Martino has nothing to do.

They both finally find time to drink their wine, the first sip a savored relief that allays some of the tension in Nico’s body. Some of the tension between them.

Surprisingly to Nico, Martino’s the one who breaks the lull. With some courage, it seems. Nico notices him open his mouth once, close it. Take a deep breath.

“What were you drawing last week?” He asks. Eyebrows raised but focusing extra hard on slicing this one particular tomato down into mushy nothing rather than looking at Nico.

“What was I drawing?” Nico repeats, simply to buy himself some more time, heart rate climbing.

“Yeah,” Martino laughs softly on an exhale. “I saw you sitting outside by the fountain last week before class. It looked like you were drawing in a book. Or maybe writing?” He grimaces, now unsure.

Nico sees what’s happening here. With the tomatoes. With the questions. _I want you to know me. I want to know you._

“I was drawing the fountain,” Nico giggles. His trembling chest and shaky hands make the careful handling of the noodle lattice a little wonky. He looks down at the uneven lines of linguini. “Fuck, these aren’t very good, are they.”

Martino ignores him with a simple wave and the scrunch of his nose, as if to say _eh, they’re fine, it’ll all taste the same._ “So you’re an artist?”

Nico’s cheeks rise. He can feel his heartbeat in his stomach. “Artist is a loose term,” he mimics in his best Martino impression. “It’s not very good.”

“Artists are bad judges of their own work,” Martino adds seriously.

That surprises Nico. “Okay,” he drags out, “are you trying to ask if you can see it?”

Martino’s squeezed smile goes lopsided. He’s still slowly mincing that one tomato to pulp. “Only if you want to show me.” He’s playing coy, Nico recognizes.

Nico wishes he could touch it up first, but can’t get over the idea that, before they even met, Martino saw him across the piazza. Just as Nico saw him.

He smiles to himself. “Remind me later.”  


—

  
A few clumsily filled ravioli behind them, Martino has everyone gathered again to go through the carbonara recipe. This one’s not so traditional — the one they make (and are known for) at the restaurant. He goes on to make a _host mode_ joke, as Nico would say, about how now that they know the secret, they better not go open their own restaurant and steal his business.

It’s met with polite, tipsy laughter. Even from Niccolò, who smiles more to himself at how he can tell the difference.

It involves lemon, shallots, and Martino likes to use a blend of cheeses rather than just pecorino. If they feel fancy, it’s topped with a lavender sprig that’s more for the smell than the taste. He promises it’s good. He also stresses the importance of guanciale, almost offended that anyone could ever think of using a substitute.

He reminds them that he’ll be around for questions and guidance once they actually get to it.

“Would you like to cut the guanciale?” Martino offers once everyone’s dismissed, turning to Niccolò with a slab of it.

“Oh, your precious guanciale?” Nico mocks him, placing a hand to his heart, bobbing his head while he giggles. “I’m honored.”

“Don’t make me think twice,” Martino kids, pulling the board away until Nico reaches for it. “Remember! Curl your fingers or I’ll make you wish you had.”

“Did you just threaten to cut my fingers off with a knife?” Nico laughs, taken aback but very, very amused at the very _not_ host mode Martino joke.

“Maybe,” Martino hums suspiciously, almost indifferently.

Their banter hangs on the edge of that quip, both smiling to themselves as they begin to work. Nico on the guanciale, Martino grating pecorino. At one point, Nico looks up to catch Martino in the motion of looking down. Still smiling.

Maybe it’s not the smartest thing to hold a knife and not pay attention because, somehow, in the action of pushing some of the cut pork jowl aside and moving the blade to the rest of the slab, in a slicing down motion, Nico does cut himself. On the outside three knuckles of his three middle fingers, the exact place he _wouldn’t_ have cut them if he curled his fingers.

“Fuck,” Nico hisses, dropping the knife on the cutting board and jerking his hand away.

Martino recognizes the sound and movement immediately. “Let me see,” he says calmly, reaching for Nico’s hand. “Okay, yeah, it’s bleeding pretty bad. There’s a first aid kit in the kitchen, follow me.”

First, Martino grabs a clean rag from the oven handle and tightly wraps it around Nico’s knuckles once. He keeps the pressure there with his own clenched fist, leading him away by the hand.

“Does it hurt?” Martino asks once they’re alone in the empty, industrial kitchen. Stainless steel everything. Like a chrome-plated planet. Their blurry, distorted reflection mirrored on every surface. He doesn’t wait for Nico’s response before taking the first aid kit off the wall where it hangs by the door.

“It doesn’t feel great,” Nico admits, waiting for Martino to scold him about those damn curled fingers.

He doesn’t, though. He just carefully unbounds Nico’s hand from the rag, keeping it in his own.

Without the pressure, the blood starts to spot again. Martino turns Nico’s fingers around in his grip, inspecting them. “It’s not too bad,” he smiles. “The bleeding is already slowing down. But I’m going to put some disinfectant on it. It’ll sting.”

It does. Martino leads him to the sink and pours peroxide over his knuckles, watching it bubble when it makes contact with the wound.

Nico winces. Maybe too dramatically. He catches Martino raise an eyebrow at him.

“Awh,” Martino teases, not buying into his theatrical display of pain. “Do you want me to kiss it better instead?”

_Please._

Nico doesn’t say that. But he also doesn’t say no. He just laughs. In that way where it might be received as laughed off. He knows his reddening face betrays him.

Martino, equally, looks like he wishes he could shove the words back in his mouth. But not in an embarrassed way. In a way that vaguely conveys, at least to Nico, _too soon, huh?_

“We have special bandages for finger cuts,” Martino changes the subject, his fake enthusiasm about their state-of-the-art first aid kit noticeable. “Here.”

He dries Nico’s hand by patting it with the rag, sandwiched between both his own.

Nico knows his own is trembling, but thankfully he has a good excuse.

Martino then loots the kit, finding the special bandages that splinter on the ends to wrap especially around knuckles so the finger can still bend. He carefully applies them to all three of Nico’s cuts, noticing his shaky hand and holding it for a moment to calm him down.

“You’ll be fine,” Martino comforts him.

Nico knows. It’s not the injury that’s racked his nerves. It’s hardly the fact they’re holding hands.

It’s the fact that they’re alone. And the uncontrollable urge that pushes to the forefront of his intentions.

Martino seems to recognize it too, drawing a deep, sharp breath in. Nico can almost feel the static between them sparkle in his lungs.

He lets go of Nico’s hand slowly, the pads of their fingertips lingering on each other before falling away.

“Thanks,” Nico nods, his voice surprisingly stable.

The recognition lugs both of them back down to reality, kicking and screaming. Nico would argue against the feeling, but time does exist outside of this kitchen, however alien looking.

“I really left the class right when they were starting that tricky sauce, huh,” Martino says more to himself than to Nico. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs before chuckling. “Are you feeling better? Well enough to go back? If you want to chill for a minute that’s fine, but I should…”

“Go,” Nico tilts his head in the direction of the door. He needs to regain his composure. “I’m just going to get some… water?” He looks around.

Martino scrounges a glass from seemingly nowhere. It dawns on Nico he knows this kitchen like the back of his hand.

“I’m going to come check on you if you’re not back in ten minutes!” Martino warns, pointing a finger and poking his head out the kitchen door before turning on his heel.

It just leaves Nico with a smile. Only when he’s gone does the cut on his knuckles start to burn.

He gets a few brief, funny stares when he returns from the back. He overthinks how it might look: they were gone for a long time, strategically returning one after another. If anyone had paid attention enough to eavesdrop on them earlier, or even last week, the flirting wouldn’t have gone unrecognized.

It’s the first time Nico’s categorized their acts as such without a retaliating thought.

“Just in time,” Martino sings, not even looking up at Nico to know he’s there.

Nico wonders what gives him away. His walk? His posture? Does he smell like something? Whatever it is, Martino’s noticed it.

“Most everyone waited for me,” Martino continues (and Nico appreciates how he said _me_ and not _us_ to spare his feelings), gesturing down at the ravioli he’s carefully plopping into the boiling water. “Would you like to whisk the carbonara?”

“Yeah,” he smiles.

There’s something about the way Martino just jumps back into everything that Nico appreciates.

Especially how he includes Nico in it.  


—

  
Almost everyone decides to stick around after class and eat this time, the pasta best when it’s fresh. And smells too good not to make anyone hungry.

The back dining table is full, a few stragglers. Nico is surprised Martino doesn’t move to start cleaning right away.

“I’m starving,” he admits, pulling up both stools to the counter and serving them each a heaping portion of the respective pasta. Host mode gone. He even undoes the top button of his chef whites.

Nico tries not to stare like a repressed Victorian maiden at the extra inch of neck, joining him with elbows on the granite.

He’s most interesting in his element without a crowd to entertain. Nico likes that he doesn’t seem to be included in said crowd.

They watch the chattering students at the back while they chew.

“You really do look like the teacher’s pet now,” Martino laughs, twirling a bite of carbonara and barely waiting to finish his sentence before taking a bite. He looks over at Nico’s plate, noticing he hasn’t tried it yet. His eyes go wide. He gulps his pasta down loudly. “Don’t hurt my feelings. This is my signature dish.”

“I’m getting there!” Nico retaliates. But the truth is his stomach is spinning so much it’s hard to eat quickly. “I wanted to try the ravioli first. Your tomatoes.”

Nico takes a dramatic bite — the whole ravioli in his mouth. Martino watches him, almost hanging on the edge of his reaction.

“They _are_ tasty,” Nico tilts his head, a sly glint to his eye. He says the next part chewing: “Just as I suspected.”

Martino shakes his head, pressing his smile down like he doesn’t want to admit Nico’s funny. He gives him the side-eye and twirls another forkful of carbonara. This time, leaning on an elbow with a hand to catch whatever falls underneath, putting it in front of Nico’s face.

It feels like a dare.

“It’s going to get cold,” Martino hints. “You eat too slow.”

Nico bites his lip first, looking at Martino and then the fork in front of him. He takes the bite. Swears the hand following under tickles his chin.

“Good?”

Liar. It’s still hot. “Good,” Nico agrees. Wondering now how he’ll eat the rest of his own pasta without Martino feeding it to him. “Really good.”

Martino smiles to himself, proud. Like Nico’s opinions on his recipes mean something to him. Maybe they do.

“I’m supposed to remind you.” Martino almost seems to cut himself off.

“Remind me?” Nico repeats. “Oh.”

Martino’s eyes travel to Nico’s bag on the floor at the end of the counter. Assuming that’s where his sketchbook is.

He uses his leverage. “I’ll let you see it if you let me stay and help you clean up.” It sounds more loaded than he means it to be, like he has a trick up his sleeve to get Martino alone now that he’s had a taste of it. “To make up for last time,” he tries to correct himself.

“Your fingers,” Martino reprimands, almost _tsk_ ing. “They should heal, not clean. The last thing you need is to get them infected with dirty food.”

It weirdly feels like Martino is turning him down. Or maybe it’s just Nico’s own projections of what he wants to happen once everyone else leaves. Until:

“Next time.”

The same echo of last week before they parted ways.

Niccolò watches Martino brush his hair out of his face, bat his eyes once heavily. His heart longs just looking at him, hurt fingers itching to do what they can’t.

Half of him can’t help but think of Martino’s _next time_ as their third date. A culmination to the last class. Only instead of a ritual first kiss, he gets to clean.

The other half of him wonders if Martino is sending him away simply because, alone together, no cleaning would get done. That unsaid _too soon?_ rings in his ears.

All put together, unless he squints, it’s hard to misread.

“Next time,” Nico agrees, the repeated words closing with a delicious aftertaste.

###### iii. Secondi

Niccolò doesn’t feel the best.

For no real reason other than this is just what happens. A stormy rain cloud hovers above Rome this September day, and above his head as well.

“You okay?” Is actually the first thing Martino asks him on a double-take before class, prepping as people chatter and settle in.

He almost didn’t come. Which is saying something since this third class looms with an unspoken promise, and is something he’s been looking forward too.

(In hindsight, maybe he wanted to avoid it for that same reason.)

Nico doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse — Martino is perceptive but he must look so evidently dejected it only takes a glance to figure it out. He smiles weakly in response, knowing his lack to make conversation might imply _no._

Martino doesn’t prod, though. He just glides a soothing hand along Nico’s shoulder as he moves behind him to fetch his black apron. Fast and friendly.

The simple touch makes Nico gently close his eyes for a beat longer than a blink. Warmth floods through him, enough to put himself in the present moment.

He’s catching himself already missing the day before it’s begun — missing the impressively lavish classroom, the rich smells. Martino.

In retrospect, this is probably what has him so glum. Not that pinpointing the source of his sudden dip in disposition always helps, but at least for now it promises to keep him grounded.

Instead of handing Nico the black apron like usual, Martino ties it around himself before patting the counter, indicating he’s set a different one aside for him.

It’s the one with the giraffes. Clean and ironed and folded. It almost makes Nico smile.

“We’re starting with dessert first today,” Martino hums pleasantly, the _maybe that will cheer you up?_ left out but implied. “Oh, and your fingers? How is your cut?”

Nico examines the fresh but faint scars across his knuckles after he loops the apron around his waist. “Mostly healed,” he replies softly.

“If you don’t cause any more trouble today, we can make our exchange then,” Martino smirks. And as usual, leaves him no room to reply before starting class with a clap of his hands.

All of the students gather around. As Martino said, they’ll be opening with dessert so it has plenty of time to chill while they “dive in” to seafood. The cheesy _host mode_ joke actually makes Nico snort through his nose.

He catches Martino’s eye, watches his smile grow wider just at the corners of his lips when they lock.

Although, Nico barely listens to the demonstration. His brain just isn’t up to par on focusing today. It shows in his incompetence to correctly core the pomegranate for their pomegranate panna cotta. Or to precisely separate the egg whites from the yolks, using the cracked shell as a sort of sieve like Martino showed them. He keeps accidentally puncturing the yolk with it.

He feels a bit needy, too, almost messing up on purpose so Martino won’t leave him alone to go check on everyone else. He hates when he does this — knows his company isn’t sunshine but begs through telepathy for someone to put up with the rain.

Martino never reprimands him, though, not even in their silly, flirty way so evident in the last few weeks. He must sense Nico’s tender frame of mind, granted it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist — Nico isn’t his cheeky, smiley self today, either.

“It’s okay,” Martino says easily and unbothered at Nico’s third failed attempt to get a single egg white fully separated. “May I?” He nods his head at the mess in Nico’s hands.

“Please,” he manages to sigh-laugh before sucking in a breath when Martino takes a step closer.

Side by side, Nico likes that he has to slightly look up at him, their faces closer than he can remember — and Nico would remember. He studies it. It’s been a few days since Martino’s shaved. His eyelashes are dark, long. There are even freckles on his eyelids.

Martino slides his arm under Nico’s, crossed at the elbow, and takes his hand in his own, laying the back of it flat in his palm. Nico notices him study the healed cuts on his knuckles first.

He forgets what they’re even doing for a moment.

“I’ll show you a different way. Spread your fingers just a little bit.” Voice soft in his ear. Martino guides him with his own hand, turning Nico’s slightly so the slits between their fingers create a sort of criss-cross pattern. “And now cup it.”

Nico’s open hand yields in Martino’s, curling and relaxing into the center of his grasp.

Martino takes an egg, cracks it on the counter, and separates the shell to let the contents drop right into Nico’s grip. The whites slither down between the gaps in their fingers, the yolk remaining whole in the divot of his palm.

“Ta-daaa,” Martino whisper-sings. “A little messy, but easy. Now you try.” And he takes his hand away.

Proof it didn’t really need to ever be there at all.

Nico’s nerves jumble. His cloudy brain and spinning stomach confused with his beating heart mixed up with his melting knees. Each sensation not where it’s supposed to be.

Except the smile on his lips. For the first time today. That one’s hard to shake.  


—

  
Panna cotta in the oven and a brief demo on how to peel and devein shrimp — and a few peeled and deveined shrimp later — the classroom begins to smell of the pungently savory aroma only ten plus pans of garlic and onions simmering in olive oil can deliver.

“I’ve noticed your secret admirer is giving you the cold shoulder today,” Martino hums quietly, Nico would say almost gloating.

He happily pokes at the garlic while Nico is busy chopping celery.

In truth, he forgot all about her. He looks up immediately to check, just as oblivious as last time. She’s concentrating on slicing a stalk of celery, just like Nico, her glasses fogging up every time she looks over to stir the pan on the stove.

She’s cute. But cute can’t snuff the flame Martino’s lit in him over the last few weeks. Especially when Nico hasn’t been expecting anyone to find the burnt wick of his heart all that enticing.

Nico’s honest about his ignorance. “Probably because I’m not giving her much to work with,” he snorts.

“Not your type?” Martino’s question is veiled in a curiously serious tone. The inflection not so campy. Dropping a few decibels, half an octave.

Nico looks over at him, Martino not meeting his eye.

“Something… like that,” Nico admits. He catches Martino’s sweet, lopsided smile in his peripherals.

“I get it.”

Forced sounding, they both chuckle to themselves and drop it. Nico overthinks the possibility of what they just said to each other. If it’s exactly what he thinks it is — if Martino thinks it’s what he thinks it is.

The push and pull is not faring well for Nico right now, currently at the top of a rollercoaster with no seatbelt on, wobbling on the tracks. It’s hard to explain how even good news can get twisted in his thought process. On a bad day, it basically boils down to: _I’m not entitled to any patience and no one deserves to put up with me._ He doesn’t understand it half the time either.

Nico takes a deep breath. He wishes this was happening yesterday. Tomorrow. Any day where he didn’t feel so low and he could appreciate Martino’s _I get it_ for what he knows it was. A green light.

Martino looks over at him, a hint of concern in his eye. He does what he does best: keeps going. Including him.

He motions for Nico to dump his chopped celery into the pan along with the tomatoes and spices that have been set to the side. He adds a splash of marsala when complete, steam rising as the cool liquid meets the hot skillet, creating a wonderful smell. It needs to reduce for a few minutes and stirred occasionally. Martino hands Nico the spatula for him to take over.

“So, Nico... the _artist,”_ Martino emphasizes. He has a meter to his voice akin to a spring in his step. Cheery. Hopeful. “But you say you’re not an artist. What do you do?”

More _I want to know you._ Nico wishes he could appreciate the interest in him. But it’s hard when it doesn’t feel deserved.

Martino sounds like he’s on a mission to part the clouds, but Nico’s stomach plummets. He was secretly hoping Martino wouldn’t ask, but of course he does. He’s inquisitively kind that way.

“I’m kind of…” Nico trails, “between things right now.” He can’t hide the embarrassment of it, feeling powerless for how steadily his character is crumbling right before them both: drooped shoulders, lethargic voice, weak prods at the contents of the pan to keep himself busy amid his humiliation.

Truth be told there is nothing wrong with working a front desk, least of all at a gym where Martino would then most likely assume Nico works out at, confirming his surreptitious and lingering touches. But it’s the principle of it, the fact Nico finally finished his masters in _architetto del paesaggio_ despite the grueling toll school has always taken on him, only for his first job to be ripped away due to budget cuts before he could see his first project come to completion. Another truth being that, with a little wordsmithing, he could tell Martino this and it would still seem just as impressive. A small setback, if anything.

But his shame overrides it all.

Nico can feel the guilt almost ooze out of Martino, like toxic sludge, slowly mucking over their admission from earlier and dissolving the intimacy of it.

Martino drops it.

Nico watches him turn the heat of the stove down and arrange two of the jumbo shrimp in the pan, heads facing each other, tails too, with their curved backs mirroring to shape them like a vague heart.

Martino goes as far as to trace the outline of it with the spatula, making it obvious. “Awh, they love you,” he blushes before covering the pan with a lid to let them steam.

(A way of saying it indirectly, Nico can’t pretend to overlook.)

That realization hits Nico like a bag of bricks, painful in the way that after it, he can’t scoop Martino up in his arms and whisper _thank you_ right over his mouth.

How he knows exactly what to do or say to make Nico smile under his raincloud before Nico could ever even guess what might bring out the sun, he has no idea.  


—

  
Nico says he’s going to go use the bathroom but goes out for a smoke instead.

Everything is dark and glistening from the rain earlier. The fountain is kindled with an orange glow and the tame, steady flow of running water. This piazza is never too lively — most tourists come simply to snap a picture and walk away — but there are people about. A popular bar is just across the way that attracts a lot of attention — plus Martino’s restaurant, which looks to be filling up fast when Nico steps by and peeks through the window.

He needs more space, though. More quiet. Just one moment completely alone to finish this cigarette and hopefully calm the nudge and tug within him, the hands around the rope of his heart — fraying at the strain — red and raw from holding on so tightly today. With practice and age and lots of help and consistency, he’s able to level his moods out pretty well by now.

He knows what he needs: it’s just a bad day, and he just needs a moment.

Nico crosses the piazza in a few quick strides, ducking into the archway hollowed out of the palazzo across the street — giant iron, green doors cast aside like metaphorical open arms. They’re usually closed this time of night.

It leads into a courtyard Nico is familiar with, a popular shortcut, centered out of the palazzo so its three stories rise above him, almost swallowing him whole. No lights, no people inside. He stands in the middle of the square and takes a long drag, closing his eyes. He notices his hand shake.

If only it didn’t take so much energy to center himself, he could figure out what he wants to do. Or figure out if there is anything to be done. He’s usually quite forward, quite flirty. Disguised in some mystery sometimes, sure, but with intent.

It only takes one bad day to talk himself out of getting close to someone. Especially when he’s walking along the literal edge of their relationship with no excuse to see Martino again after tonight.

That thought saddens him. But not for too long.

“I thought I would find you here,” Martino’s voice echoes gingerly through the courtyard. He pauses for a moment before reaching Nico, pondering and looking up, around. Realizing this is a place people might come at night precisely not to be found.

Everything inside Nico immediately — and surprisingly — settles. Relief doesn’t feel like strong enough a word, but it’s the first one that comes to mind.

“Well,” he chuckles, exhaling with a puff of smoke. “You did.”

It doesn’t sound matter-of-fact or even destitute. He’s glad he did, almost takes it as a sign.

Martino doesn’t respond right away, still eyeing his surroundings. Nico joins him, both of their chins turning up.

It’s really quite a gorgeous scene. Large potted ferns mark the corners inside the cobblestone square. Inset along the rusty peach walls are baroque marble statues of half-clothed men, all looking down at them. A balustrade blocks off an outside corridor above. If Nico remembers correctly, there’s a library there. He could find a new detail he’s never seen before every minute if he tried.

Martino seems to notice. “Looks like a place you’d come.”

“Oh really? How do you know?” Nico chuckles, passing Martino the cigarette to let him know his question isn’t as serious as it sounds. His voice tends to go deep when he’s melancholy.

Martino shrugs his shoulders and takes a drag. Blows it out with his response. “I guess I don’t.” Passes it back with a step forward.

It’s weird with nothing to lean on, nothing to sit on. No corners for safety. Both of them simultaneously alone — with no promise of cover — and out in the open. Like fawns in a field.

“But I’d like to,” Martino says it quietly to the ground, licking his bottom lip with a small smirk.

Nico raises his eyebrows mid drag, a perfect excuse for his glitching brain and lack of response. Their admittance from earlier seems salvaged, despite Nico talking himself in circles and out of everything. He hates to think he’s the one who’d ruined it with his chilly temperament. God bless Martino’s bravery. His persistence.

This is the moment, Nico thinks, defaulting to his romantic side. The now or never moment Martino’s handed to him on a silver platter. Whether it be where they exchange numbers, slowly stoking the flames of each other’s hearts with sweet texts. Where they make plans to see each other again: a date.

Where they kiss.

Before Nico can decide which one sounds more tempting, footsteps echo through the courtyard.

Martino takes an appropriate step back, clearing his throat.

The pedestrian hurries along fast enough, most likely noticing they’re ruining a conversation. The courtyard is technically a shortcut from Piazza Mattei to the next street. But the magic seems lost all the same, even when they’re alone again. Maybe public isn’t the best place for this, anyway.

Who knows if Nico kissed him, if he’d be able to stop.

 _Okay,_ he thinks. _Stop getting ahead of yourself._

There’s some awkward silence. Nico finishes the cigarette. “Is it okay that you just left everyone inside?” He teases Martino, the mood broken but not heavy.

Martino rolls his eyes and swats his hand. In sync, they slowly step next to each other on their way back.

“They’re fine,” he huffs. “We finished the sauce for the shrimp. Now we’re just waiting for dessert to cool. And they have wine.”

“Sorry I missed it,” Nico purses his lips together, genuine in his apology.

Martino looks at him like he didn’t even need to be. “Are you hungry?”

Nico chuckles. “...I have a confession.”

Martino stops walking, holding his breath. Nico realizes it was a poor choice of words, that what he’s about to say is not the deep thing he can feel lingering between them.

“I don’t like shrimp,” Nico faintly laughs. Luckily, it’s met with an equal one.

They begin to walk again, still slowly and now through the piazza with the restaurant in view.

“How do you…?” Martino starts, shaking his head and not even bothering to finish. “Well, we still have the panna cotta.”

“I have another confession…” Nico giggles, earning him a light punch in the shoulder.

“Picky! If I had known I would have changed the menu for today…”

Martino blushes. Nico can see it even in the dark. It’s sweet, how he thinks of him like this.

“But,” Martino continues, waving one finger in the air, “I have something I know you’ll like in the kitchen. I made it this morning.” He smirks over at Nico, his nose crinkling slightly and his lips barely parting over his smile. He looks down again, licks his lip.

“And?” Nico prompts. They’re at the door now. He holds it open for Martino. “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

Martino nods, pausing in the entryway. He’s blatant about the look he gives Nico, starting with a dart around his face, down, up again. His smile pinches at the corners. “After we clean up.”  


—

  
Nico doesn’t know what he expected, but doing the dishes is exactly like doing the dishes. Smelly. Pruny hands in lukewarm water. Loading and unloading the massive, industrial dishwasher with puffs of steam that make his hair poofy. Pinching his fingers by lowering stacks of plates into a drying rack. All while Martino runs around handing him more, putting leftovers away, making sure the kitchen isn’t a disaster for tomorrow.

“You know,” Niccolò huffs, wiping his brow when Martino comes over with another impossibly large stack of dirty mixing bowls. “I don’t miss this.”

“This is the last of it, I promise, then we can have a treat.” Martino winks at him while walking away, not turning to look back at his reaction.

Which is a mixture of stunned and weak at the knees. He does that a lot, Nico notices. Leaves Nico with these little half-finished moments. Like the bravery just slips out of him without any forethought and he regrets it half the time.

Nico knows what that’s like, despite the inability to reign himself better than most. Not wanting to come on too strong, or send the wrong signal. Or how often to dip a toe in the water before accidentally slipping in.

He finishes the last of the dishes, draining the sink and rinsing it out just as Martino finds him again from the other side of the kitchen, balancing way too many cambros in his arms.

“Can you open the cooler for me?” Martino nods his head in its direction.

Nico rushes over to it, fumbling with the handle. It’s a large, walk-in one. The light goes on when it opens, like a refrigerator.

Martino struggles to move without dropping anything. “Is it okay if you step in and I just hand them to you?”

Nico nods. They make it work — Martino describing where everything should go as he gives over the containers to Nico, who places them on the shelves.

“And now,” Martino drags out, a cheeky smile on his face, “for dessert. Can you grab that, there?” He points. “The large covered metal pan?”

There’s about a million of those. Nico snickers. “Um…”

“Here,” Martino laughs, stepping inside the cooler with him.

It’s a tight squeeze, Martino’s chest against his back. Luckily Nico can blame the goosebumps running up his arms on the chill.

Martino attempts to keep the door of the cooler propped open with his foot, but loses his balance reaching over Nico’s head for the tray on his tiptoe. He ends up leaning heavily into Nico, the pan safely in hand, but by doing so has to take a step closer — the door of the cooler shuts behind him and the light goes off with it.

“Goddamnit…” Martino grumbles. “Can you hold this?” He feels around for Nico’s hands, gently giving him the covered tray.

The flashlight of his phone turns on, illuminating them both in horror-movie-esque shadows. Martino attempts to push on the door, but it’s locked.

Nico gulps. Funny enough, his mind doesn’t race with thoughts of dying from hypothermia overnight, but on all the ways they could help each other stay warm.

Martino notices his distress.

“Don’t worry,” he says calmly. “This is hardly the first time I’ve accidentally locked myself in the cooler…” He makes a shy, wry face. “I’ll call Luca.”

He turns his flashlight off, the muffled ringing being swallowed by the cold.

“Hey,” Martino drags out, “sorry to bother you, I — yeah. Yeah... This is not the only reason I call you... No... Please? Okay, thank you.” He hangs up and pockets his phone, doesn’t bother turning the light back on. “He’s on his way,” Martino reassures Nico. “He lives right upstairs, so it should only be a few minutes.”

Nico nods, realizing Martino can’t see him. “Okay.” He tries to make his voice smooth and easy-sounding.

Martino’s shoulder is against his own now, he can sense it shrug in a sigh. His head must be turned toward him, too. Nico can feel the warm exhale on his neck.

“You know, I’m sorry for earlier.” Martino’s voice is quiet, and lower than Nico’s used to.

He turns his head even though he can’t see. They’re so close, Nico feels the frizzy curls over his forehead brush against Martino’s. “Sorry?”

“I don’t know,” Martino almost laughs to himself. “For being nosy.”

“You’re not nosy…” Nico attests, hoping the _I’m just sensitive_ doesn’t need to be said.

But he thinks Martino gets it — appreciates that he didn’t bring up the night and day of Nico’s feelings at all, even though that’s (indirectly) what he’s apologizing for. Hurting them. Being the reason Nico needed to step away. Thinking it was probably something he did to warrant Nico’s sunny disposition last week and his rainy one today.

He hears Martino take a deep breath.

“But there has been… one more thing I wanted to ask you.”

The door to the cooler opens just a second before Nico can fully process that sentence, illuminating them both. Looking at each other. Martino’s warm brown eyes so close to his face his breath hitches. Both of theirs. Evident in the fading steam from their exhales in the cold.

Martino opens his mouth. Closes it again. Is the first to look away.

“Thanks, Luchi,” he sighs.

Luca is short, handsome, also in chef whites — although untucked and unbuttoned. Nico guesses he must also work at the restaurant. He’s smirking, his whole body lifting once with a huff as he glances from Martino to Niccolò. When they make eye contact, one of his eyebrows lift.

He mouths something to Martino that Nico doesn’t catch.

Martino reaches forward to swat him, but Luca dodges it.

“Okay! I’m leaving, I was in the middle of something, anyway.”

He’s so bad at lying, Nico doesn’t even know the guy and he can clearly read how that translates to _YOU’RE in the middle of something._

Martino practically shoos him out, insisting _no, we don’t need help, we’re just about done cleaning — yes, the class went fine — NO, LUCHI, THANK YOU, YOU CAN GO HOME NOW._

Nico is still standing in the cooler, holding the mystery tray and watching with a pinched smile. Reveling in that look that could mean nothing, and at the same time couldn’t mean anything else.

Martino’s face is beet red when he turns back around, arms tight at his sides. He flexes his hands and closes his eyes. “Sorry, he…”

“... seems fun,” Nico hums, finishing his sentence with a tip of his head. He steps out of the cooler and Martino takes the tray from him.

“You’re right,” Martino admits, leading Nico over to one of the prep tables and opening a random drawer below it, digging around with the tip of his tongue at the corner of his mouth. “He’s one of my best friends, I guess I can’t say anything too bad about him. Ah —! There we go.” He clinks two forks on the metal surface, popping the top off of the pan.

It’s a large sheet of tiramisu, not even cut yet. Martino slices up a corner bite with a fork, holding it over for Nico to take.

“Everyone likes this stuff,” Martino smiles. “No more excuses.”

Nico takes the bite Martino feeds him this time without hesitation, cheeks getting hot despite his skin still warming up. It’s a little too big, Nico can’t get it all. Some of the mascarpone falls down his chin and Nico’s stomach flips when he feels Martino’s thumb wipe it away.

They laugh it off, a heated look that follows with stolen glances up and down.

“It’s different,” Nico notes, mouth still full. He looks up when he says it, like he’s trying to guess. “But like, good different.”

“It has orange liquor,” Martino almost sings, satisfied with Nico’s reaction. “And white chocolate.”

Nico notices Martino use the same fork to take another bite for himself, and he can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking the same thing: _does it taste like him?_

“I can show you now,” Nico offers, knowing Martino won’t push him anymore after this night.

(Which means a lot of things. And a lot of pressure on Nico, who doesn’t know if he has it in him to do anything grand.)

Martino's eyes light up then, pleased and proud of himself. He even rubs his hands together when Nico loots through his bag for his sketchbook.

Nico pointedly opens it to the correct page and slides it over, trusting Martino not to flip through the rest.

Of course, as he watches Martino’s eyes flick through all the details of the sketch, he’s nitpicking his own mistakes — crooked perspective lines and inconsistent shading — and even more so his procrastination to fix it in over three weeks time.

“You drew this?” Martino asks, impressed, finishing the rhetorical question before looking up at Nico.

He nods, slightly sheepish and feeling very vulnerable. Almost like his own personal faults are hidden in every sloppy stroke, in every careless crosshatch.

“It’s beautiful.” Martino’s voice lifts up, soft and private. Bypassing Nico’s ears and going straight to his heart. “Is that me?” He points to the two blobs in the background, vaguely outlining human figures. A puff of smoke rises from one.

“Must be,” Nico admits, knowing full well that it is after learning they saw each other before that first class. “You can have it, if you want.”

Martino’s face lights up. “Do I just…?” He gently tries to rip the page out.

“Yeah,” Nico chuckles. “You just — here.” He takes the sketchbook from Martino and tears out the page in one fell swoop, handing it over.

Martino almost looks scandalized. “You have to sign it and date it.”

And Niccolò almost snickers. “It’s not that special.”

“It is to me.”

Nico tries to shoot Martino a look that says _really?_ but he knows it comes off as much softer than that — he can feel his eyes practically shine, his cheeks get full in a smile.

“Fine,” he snips, pulling a pen from his bag. “When was the first class? September...? Third…?”

Martino smiles and nods. It feels like yesterday, while simultaneously each day between classes a year.

Niccolò signs his full name in his loopy script, penning the date under it. Trying to make a face that conveys how ridiculous he finds this when in reality he considers it the sweetest thing. He catches his smile turning sly.

When he hands it over, Martino takes it gently.

Like a heavy blanket draped over him, Nico feels the delicate weight of the night ending, their parting of ways coming faster than he wanted. A surge of bravery shocks him at the realization.

He clears his throat. “What did you want to ask me earlier?” It comes out shakey anyway.

Martino pretends to look confused.

“In the cooler,” Nico makes clear, second-guessing if it’s actually a wormhole — the events that transpired in there another place, another time. Another Martino and Niccolò.

But the blush on Martino’s face is evidence that it’s not — that maybe he was hoping Nico would forget, that maybe it was the darkness, the crisp cool, a harsh contrast to the fluorescents and chrome of the kitchen — but he’s nervous now in a way that Nico didn’t pick up in his initial question.

“I wanted to ask you…” Martino trails in a mumble — like he’s debating, or changing his mind — “...if you could water my garden while I’m away over the weekend. I could get your number, and text you the details...”

He’s going for the _very_ subtle approach, and Nico appreciates that. Taking the pressure off of him despite not wanting to push. Not too much. Veiled in a responsibility. A promise to keep in contact for a reason that could run off course down a lovely side street. Conscious and attentive of Nico’s rainy day — of what exactly could cause thunder to rumble or sun to shine — yet not too modestly or task-oriented that the underlying reason is a mystery.

Nico wiggles his head just a tad too pompously, his eyes purposefully half-mooned under long lashes with a gaze he knows reads like: _I can see right through you, and I love what you look like._

“I can do that,” he almost sings.

###### iv. Dolce

 _[9:21 AM] **MARTINO**_  
\- thank you again for agreeing to water my plants!  
\- i’ve left the spare key with my friend eva across the hall in #6  
\- i told her to expect you sometime today

Nico wakes up to the message, reading it with blurry eyes while he pushes his curls off his forehead in a stretch. He’s already feeling better than yesterday — calmer, but still tired. In truth, he’s riding the wave of last night. The tail end of it, at least. With no need to walk out the door together (since Martino’s flat is above the restaurant), they parted ways in the foyer of the building after exchanging numbers with blushy smiles and a clumsy hug.

God, Martino gives good hugs. Nico sighs deep and presses his phone to his chest. The only bad thing about it was that it didn’t last long enough. Maybe for the best — Nico could already feel how much he was melting in his arms. A second longer and he might have been a puddle.

Their _it was really nice to meet you_ ’s and _Let’s keep in touch?_ ’s as Nico lingered in the doorway sounded friendly enough on the outside, but in truth were just nervous disguises badly veiling everything else on the tips of their tongues. As much as he battles his brain — even belittles it sometimes — he often takes blessings in hindsight as signs. Maybe this one was telling him to slow down.

 _[10:01 AM] **NICCOLÒ**_  
\- no problem! i’ll swing by after work and do it!

 _[10:02 AM] **MARTINO**_  
\- :)

He regrets the double exclamation point, but to say that smiley face gets him through his shift would be an understatement. Gives him a matching one he has to bite down all day.  


—

  
Nico double-checks the message again later, standing in the hallway of the block of apartments above Martino’s restaurant and confirming he doesn’t accidentally knock on the wrong door.

Hesitantly, he raps two knuckles right below the eyehole, overhearing a scuffle in response.

Eva, presumably, opens the door, and Nico almost loses his footing — she could be Martino’s twin. Auburn hair, round nose, big eyes.

She looks him up and down with one of those impressed smile-frowns. “Nico?”

“Uh, yeah,” Nico confirms. “I’m here for —”

“Martino’s keys?” She’s already turning around, keeping the door propped open with her foot and digging through a messy junk box on the counter of a dresser in the foyer. She pauses, though, and looks at Nico again — as if sizing him up. “Damn. You _are_ cute.” She mumbles it, saying it more to herself than to him.

It sounds like an agreement. Unmistakingly so, and Nico runs through a fake scenario in his head: Martino stopping by Eva’s before leaving for the weekend. Giving her the keys. Telling her Nico would be by to get them later. Describing him. Dark curly hair. Slim. _Cute._

He smiles to himself, fidgeting his fingers together nervously while he rocks on the balls of his feet.

“Here we go,” Eva sings. She holds out a plain key on a ring clad with a keychain of Michelangelo’s David you could get on any corner of Florence.

Nico takes it, nodding his head in thanks. She sizes him up once more before shutting the door with a smirk.

Martino’s apartment is, unsurprisingly, warm. Just like him. Lots of wood trim, soft blue walls, gold-framed photos and pillowy furniture. And this is just the living room. Nico doesn’t feel entitled to walk through the whole house, let alone Martino’s room (although he won’t lie, he’s curious), so he’s disappointed to learn that the balcony stems off of the kitchen.

But that disappointment melts immediately once he sees it. Glass doors with wooden shutters on a pulley. Small deck with iron trim. Just one square foot of space to step that isn’t covered by terra cotta, the rest with pots of tomatoes, rosemary, basil, chili peppers, spinach, mint… more that Nico can’t recognize. Some on stilts, some using the shade of others. Everything is alive and green and lush in summer’s wake.

Martino takes good care of it. Although that hardly surprises him.

On the kitchen counter is a watering can and a memo, broken out into how much water each plant gets. Tomatoes the most, the herbs not so much. Don’t water the rosemary at all. The note is signed with: _Martino ♡_

Nico is half tempted to pocket it, a gesture that will — he hopes — tend any embers Martino has in his heart for him if he notices it’s gone.

His phone buzzes.

 _[7:41 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- how did it go? are my tomatoes still alive?

 _[7:41 PM] **NICCOLÒ**_  
\- alive and well :)  
\- i just got here, though. still plenty of time to wreak havoc.

 _[7:42 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- please tell me you have a green thumb.

 _[7:42 PM] **NICCOLÒ**_  
\- i guess we’ll find out ;)

 _[7:42 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- i expect daily progress reports!

Nico snaps a video of him filling up the watering can per Martino’s instructions, carefully calculating and splitting it between the three pots of tomatoes.

 _[7:47 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- :)  
\- i knew i could trust you

His heart lifts. Martino probably didn’t intend for it to be that deep, but it means a lot to him. But because of that, he doesn’t really know what to reply, which is not a good mix when he’s desperate to keep the conversation going. Nico hesitates, but decides to press send anyway after typing out the message:

[7:49 PM] **NICCOLÒ**  
\- so why did the weekend take you away?

 _[7:50 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- food handler’s seminar in bologna so I can renew my employee health permit 🙃  
\- boring stuff  
\- luchi says hi

It’s followed by a selfie of them both, looking bored with chins resting on closed fists, seemingly sitting in a classroom-type setting. Ugly fluorescent lights, horrid paneled walls.

Nico’s stomach still flips at the sight of him, though. As photogenic as he expected. He saves the picture to his phone. But he plays it cool:

 _[7:50 PM] **NICCOLÒ**_  
\- hi luca :)  
\- sounds so fun 😅

 _[7:51 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- a total blast  
\- you have to have fun this weekend for the both of us

 _[7:51 PM] **NICCOLÒ**_  
\- i can’t  
\- sadly i’m stuck watering some loser’s plants

 _[7:52 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- wow. ouch.

There’s the “typing…” notification for a while, then it stops. Then it comes back.

 _[7:54 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- you’re lucky you’re cute

Nico, grinning at his phone in Martino’s kitchen, literally has to put it down for a second and close his eyes. No longer having to imagine what Eva was agreeing with, and with whom.

But — and he wants to return the compliment, just wants it to be special and not seem like a forced, reactionary courtesy — he’s terrified that he has no idea how to respond. Even more terrified that his read receipts have clearly shown Martino he’s read the message and that he’s saying nothing.

In a panic, Nico plucks a tomato from the balcony and takes a selfie of him eating it like an apple. Per their joke earlier. As if to say _this isn’t supposed to be cute but I know I am because you said so._

As expected, a second after he sends it, he hopes Martino even remembers.

(But of course he does.)

 _[7:56 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- i knew it  
\- weirdo

 _[7:57 PM] **NICCOLÒ**_  
\- excuse me? weirdo?

 _[7:57 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- you heard me

Nico, feeling bold and laden with the perfect opportunity, crafts the message and reads it over several times before hitting send:

 _[7:58 PM] **NICCOLÒ**_  
\- well you’re lucky you’re cute  


—

  
Nico doesn’t hear from Martino the next day. Their stunted conversation kept going through the rest of Martino’s seminar and fizzled out sometime after dinner.

Paired with his craving for Martino to text him first, Nico doesn’t want to bother him when he’s obviously busy. So he leaves it at that.

To say he’s upset about it, though, wouldn’t be wrong. But he finds some joy in spending time in Martino’s apartment, lingering as he waters the garden on Saturday and watches the sunset from the balcony. This time (and, okay, he’ll admit he’s snooping) he dawdles through Martino’s kitchen.

Which, again, unsurprisingly, gives him away completely. It’s a chef’s kitchen, no doubt.

A pegboard of hanging aprons is on the wall by the entryway leading from the living room. It’s so easy to imagine Martino swiping one as he enters, throwing it around his waist with that effortless air he possesses in his element.

Expensive knives in a knife block sit on the counter by the stove — perched on the burners is a moka pot, a dutch oven, and a clean, slick, cast iron skillet. It’s old, and gas. Nico just knows Martino must have it down to a science.

His spice rack on the island is chaotically organized. Everything has a place, but he’s sorted it by color and not name, which Nico finds oddly charming.

He left the fridge rather bare, but the pantry is full of every grain, sugar, and flour you could think of. All taken out of their original packaging and stored in labeled glass jars. _Dried farro. Caster sugar. Almond flour._

Nico smiles.

Fuck it. He wants to know — know _everything_ — and Martino won’t be home until tomorrow. His patience is nonexistent.

If Nico had any residual guilt, it doesn’t have time to catch up with him. He closes the pantry and quietly steps toward the only hallway he hasn’t ventured down yet, passing a bathroom and a closed door.

Turning the knob gently, he’s relieved to find that it’s unlocked.

Martino’s bedroom is not like the rest of the house. It’s crowded and messy. But not dirty. There’s just a lot of books not on shelves, lots of papers not on his desk. Clean clothes folded but not in his dresser and posters taped to the wall but not in frames. It reminds Nico a little of his own room.

A laundry basket on the floor catches his eye — specifically the apron Martino wore the night of their first class inside of it. The ludicrous outline of a six-pack creased at the fold in a neat stack of clean clothes. On a second glance, the one with the giraffes is under it. The whole basket is filled with aprons — Martino’s personal stash he’s kind enough to bring for everyone. Coupled with the ones hanging in the kitchen, he must have several dozen. Probably an easy Christmas gift. Or birthdays. Almost a gag by now. Nico chuckles to himself, reveling in these assumptions with a longing to want to know for certain.

He takes a step inside, turning on the overhead light, promising himself he won’t touch anything. Just look. In the back of his mind, he’s come to confirm just one thing.

And he finds it fast. Taped to the wall by Martino’s desk.

His drawing. Of the Turtle Fountain. Of Martino’s restaurant. Nico drags a sentimental finger along the torn edge of it, the flame in his heart becoming a wildfire.

There’s a clumsy key in the lock — a loud jingle Nico can hear from the open door all the way down the hall. It causes his heart to skip several panicked beats.

Fuck. He wide-steps out of Martino’s room, turns off the light, and quietly clicks the door behind him in a quick grace he still can’t quite believe, running to the kitchen because that’s the only place it would make sense for him to be.

As he passes the front door, there’s a lot of rustling. A frustrated _hmpf_ he can clearly tell is Martino. Thank god for whatever he’s struggling with — it’s saved Nico from being caught in the act.

Finally by the balcony, just as he’s drawing down the shutter to make it look like he’s just finished watering the garden, Martino is bumbling through the front door with armfuls of grocery bags slung in the bend of his elbows.

They catch each other’s eye through the archway connecting the living room to the kitchen.

“Oh,” they both say, surprised and at the same time.

“You’re home early,” Nico notes after a pause. His heart is pounding in his head, his stomach, everywhere. He rushes to Martino out of breath. “Let me help.”

Martino seems frozen in the open door, still half in the hallway and handing over bags to Nico.

“Thanks,” he smiles, face getting red. “Yeah, um, we were supposed to spend the whole weekend there, but I just wanted to get home.” He leads Nico to the kitchen.

Nico can’t help but peek into one of the bags. There’s fresh garlic. Eggs. A bottle of wine. Some sort of marinated olives and a whole, raw chicken. Who knows what’s in the remaining sacks. He had to have made several stops.

“I can tell by your lavish grocery shopping adventure,” Nico teases him, knowing full well that the last thing he’d want to do after traveling back home is go to the store.

“You know,” Martino emphasizes, hoisting his bags up on the counter, “I hadn't realized until this weekend, but I hate not making my own food.”

Nico snorts, leaning back against the counter by the sink. “Most people have the opposite problem.”

“The hotel barely had a microwave, and everything else was catered because it’s quick and we had to be there all day…” Martino complains, sounding disgusted but looking lovingly at each new ingredient he pulls from his bags, finding a home for it in the pantry, the fridge.

Nico loves it. All of it. How everything has a place. How easily they fell into conversation. How Martino feels so at home. How Martino feels _like_ home.

Martino carefully inspects the raw chicken as he folds his last reusable bag and puts it in a bottom drawer, then looks over to Nico with a glint of mischief in his eye. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

He looks so hopeful that even if Nico didn’t want to, he couldn’t say no.

But the _yes_ slips out so fast it sounds desperate. Not _sure,_ not _okay,_ just _yes._ He doesn’t even care.

Martino smiles at his conspicuous answer, almost freezing this moment in time before quickly snapping into chef mode. Mixing bowls, utensils, everything. They appear out of nowhere into neat rows on the island while Martino dances about, prepping. He turns to grab an apron, seemingly random from the many hanging by the front of the kitchen and throws it over his head, ties it double upfront.

It isn’t until now that Nico notes he’s never seen Martino not in his chef whites. He’s got on jeans (that hug the widest part of his thighs, Nico tries not to stare) and a plain blue shirt he obviously buys a size larger than needed just to fit his shoulders. Beat up sneakers. It’s so much _less_ than normal. Less fabric. Fewer buttons. Nico can see the skin of his arms where he shouldn't be surprised to see freckles but does.

The urge to touch him has never been stronger. And not the micro touches he’s used to — no brush of the shoulder, no hand on hand. Nico wants to know what his waist feels like. To come up behind him, chest to back. To hold his face. Comb through his hair.

But that damned apron. Martino’s turned back around now, facing him. Nico’s not lying to you, it says _Kiss The Cook_ on the chest in condensed, red letters with a clipart-esque lipstick stain right below.

It’s either mocking him or daring him. Martino doesn’t seem to realize until he flattens it out with a quick brush of his hands after securing the bow. Too late to change it now. His face gets red, he loses his footing in a cute, small trip on his way back to the fridge.

Nico suppresses a giggle. “Do you want any help?”

Martino has his whole head inside of the cooler as if to calm himself. But when he peeks back over the door at Nico, his cheeks are still pink.

“Please,” he snorts sarcastically. Then hesitates. “Let me impress you. Sit.”

It sounds innocent enough. But Nico takes a seat at the small kitchen table by the French doors to the balcony like he’s told.

Martino pours him a glass of wine. A white.

“So,” he begins, chopping an onion on the island.

Nico can tell he’s relaxed now. In his element. _Hosting._ But not in _host mode,_ as he puts it. Maybe he can tell Nico feels better today — Nico surely does.

“I take it my garden is still alive?” Martino peeks over at the balcony where the shutter remains half-lowered.

“Thriving,” Nico corrects, maybe over exaggerating. It’s only been two days.

Martino throws the chopped onion into the pan on the stove, softly sizzling once it makes contact with the hot oil and wafting a delicious scent over to Nico.

“Well, I have to ask.” Martino moves back to the island, removing the chicken from it’s wrapping and putting it on a flat baking pan. Nico sees him start to cut the back of it in long slices. “I had Eva watch my plants once for just a weekend and she managed to kill my spinach.”

There’s a violent _crack._ Martino thrusts both hands down on the back of the chicken with force. Nico’s giggle is interrupted by a startled gasp.

It catches Martino’s attention. “It’s called spatchcocking,” he explains with a laugh at what must be Nico’s horrified face. “I’m making pollo schiacciato.”

Nico practically melts. Maybe the wine is helping. “I _love_ pollo schiacciato,” he emphasizes at the risk of laying it on a little too thick. “But I haven’t had it in forever.”

“I used to _hate_ it,” Martino smirks. He starts rubbing something all over the skin of it. “And had it all the time.”

There’s a story somewhere in there. Nico wants to ask, but feels guilty leaving something else unanswered.

“I’m a landscaper,” he blurts. Martino looks up at him. “Or, like, a landscape designer. But, not right now. Or, I was. I went to school for it. But it’s not what I’m currently doing. I need to find… another job. In it.” He disguises his stammering by finishing the last half of his wine in one gulp.

Martino, with an eyebrow raised, swiftly grabs the bottle and pours him another glass, almost worried.

“I lost my job,” Nico clarifies. “But not because I’m incompetent. Budget cuts, and… yeah.” He takes a deep breath. “In the meantime, I work the desk at… a gym.” Nico almost whispers the last part.

He really hopes the _you are just so successful, with your own restaurant and your classes, and I bet it took a lot of hard work — and here I am, so embarrassed to even pretend what I do is worthy of even telling you_ he knows he was thinking during his ramble didn’t make it into his tone.

Martino just beams, pleased with a dash of clever. “So…” he trails matter-of-factly. “You _are_ an artist?”

Nico freezes, not expecting that response and slightly impressed Martino was able to come to that conclusion from his half-incoherent blather.

He takes a step closer to Nico, a spatula in his hand he waves around while he gesticulates. “That’s what I’m gathering from this —” he points it at Nico “— that you lied to me.”

His inflection is cheeky, teasing. Very _I knew it_ and _I told you so._

“I mean,” Nico says down into his fresh glass, bashful. “In loose terms. Broadly. I guess.”

Martino turns on his heel, sticks the chicken into the oven, sets an old-school timer — it’s mechanical _clicks_ counting down the seconds as he places it on the counter — and brushes his hands on his apron. “It’s how I classify you in my head regardless.”

Before Nico has time to process that — that he rents a room in Martino’s head he now knows is labeled with _cute_ and _artist_ — Martino changes the subject:

“This will need to be in the oven for a while...”

That’s all he says, but it’s articulated like a question. _Is that okay? Can you stay for long?_

Nico nods. Martino pours the olives he spotted earlier into a small bowl and brings it over, pulling out a chair and sitting next to Nico at the kitchen table.

Martino takes a sip of his wine without asking.

He glances at the apron again. _Kiss The Cook._ Nico believes Martino’s flustered expression after he realized he put it on was genuine, which only leaves one plausible solution: fate. He bites his tongue with his front teeth and catches Martino’s eye on the way up, noticing him noticing him.

Nico thinks he needs to finish this glass of wine first before thinking about that any further. He exhales, leans back, crosses his legs so his ankle sits on his knee. Thumbs fidgeting in his lap. “Are you going to tell me the pollo schiacciato story?” He asks with a raised eyebrow.

Martino snorts. Pops an olive in his mouth and pulls out the pit. “I just grew up on it,” he says through a chew. “I remember there was one point where mom brought it home for dinner for a month straight. Honestly, I think she had a crush on the guy at the market, but that meant I had to eat it every. single. night.” He rolls his eyes but smiles, like one does when they remember something rough through rose-colored glasses.

Nico smiles softly, assuming there’s more.

“So it was more of a grudge thing than a taste thing,” Martino explains. “Until I finally decided to make it myself and realized it’s good.”

Nico takes a drink. “And when was that?”

“I was actually a journalism student,” Martino smiles. Another olive. Another sip of Nico’s wine.

(Nico mentally pauses time at this moment. Just a spiritual snapshot. It’s nice. Sitting in Martino’s kitchen, the last reach of sunlight peeking through the half-closed shutter of the balcony, eating olives and drinking wine while the room fills with the smell of roast chicken. One of those moments he misses while it’s happening.)

Nico chuckles, and Martino nods in agreement.

“Yes!” He cheers. “Laugh. It is funny. I can hardly believe it myself. But this is kind of how… it all started? I would crave these things from childhood. And one day I woke up wanting pollo schiacciato, so I made it. And it was good. And fun. And soon the only thing getting me through the day was the promise that I could go home and cook. I taught myself. But first,” he snorts, “I had to eat a lot of burnt dinners.”

Nico gestures over to him with an open hand, palm up. “And now look at you.”

He didn't mean for it to sound so laden, but it’s probably conveyed more through his eyes darting all over Martino than his tone of voice.

Curly hair. Brown eyes. Bare arms. _Kiss The Cook._

God, he wants to.

Martino smiles at him humbly. Gets up to peel some potatoes. First, he tops off Nico’s wine.

But Nico follows him to the stove, leaning against the island while Martino puts on a pot of water to boil.

“Are you sure I can’t help?”

Martino narrows his eyes at him. Turns around so he’s leaning against the fridge adjacent and facing Nico. So close Nico’s delighted he gets to look up at him. Their feet, stretched out before them for balance, are almost touching. Slotted between each other.

“You already have the most important job,” Martino hums, his lip turning up in a smirk. He licks his bottom one and Nico thinks he’s about to go crazy.

He raises his eyebrows as if to ask _Oh? What’s that?_

“Keeping me company,” Martino lists. “Standing there. Looking cute.”

Nico inhales and can’t find the brainpower to remember how to exhale. Like he primitively needs to rehearse the mechanics of it, step by step.

He reaches forward — unsure of how to react to that when the only reaction that seems appropriate is _Kiss The Cook_ — and tugs on the bow of Martino’s apron tied just over his belly button. Not undoing it, just loosening it.

He reads it again, in his head.

“Can I?”

Martino knows exactly what he means. It’s evident in the way he asks: “Can you what?”

“Kiss the cook,” Nico reads once more, this time aloud, looking Martino dead in the eye.

He nods, ever so slightly, and Nico’s memory would relay to him he caught the tail end of it when their lips pressed together. Almost like he didn’t bother to wait.

It’s quick. Nico pushes himself off the island, takes a tiny step, finds Martino’s face with one hand and his waist with another. Crowds him against the fridge and kisses him. Not even for long enough to cherish his stubble on his palm, his soft hip under his fingers.

Not until he pulls away that is, to survey the test, to see if Martino is smiling just as wide as he is.

And he is.

Of course he is.

Nico’s thumb smooths over Martino’s risen cheek and feels the little prickles of his short beard. His other hand moves to the small of Martino’s back. Nico feels Martino’s own hand resting on his chest, the other on the back of his neck. How it wasn’t the first thing he felt — that simultaneous push and pull — he can’t remember.

Martino kisses him this time. Leaning in slowly, his lips still thin in a smile. For longer, for softer. Nico feels him run his hand through his hair like he’s been aching to touch it. Feels his palm smooth down his chest to his stomach like he’s been curious if Nico feels strong everywhere.

He opens his mouth. Turns his head. Nico gets dizzy, the wildfire in his heart hungry now, spreading to other parts of his body.

The timer beeps, startling Nico, who pops off of Martino completely unaware of how long they’ve been kissing.

Martino doesn’t seem to have noticed, or cared, turning Nico’s face to kiss him again with a half-open mouth. Pulling at him and laughing into it. It makes Nico’s eyes fall shut like he’s under a spell and the hypnotists just snapped his fingers.

“But you shouldn’t let it burn,” Nico manages, having to say part of it, winded, over Martino kissing him. “Or set the sprinklers off again,” he teases. “Summon the fire department.”

Martino reaches his right hand over, palming at the counter and fussing with the timer once he finds it, smacking it on the surface to get it to shut up.

 _Shh_ Martino breathes, pressing their foreheads together once it’s silent. The smile evident in his voice. He kisses Nico again, hand finding his face like the two seconds of separation was more lost time, mocked by the timer, than he ever wants to experience again.

“Don’t tell anyone at the restaurant I said this,” he pecks Nico. “But burnt dinner —” another peck, this one melting into a kiss he barely finishes his sentence over, “is worth it.”

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/)


End file.
